The Colour of a Soul
by mockorangeflower
Summary: The famous painter Arthur Gold disappeared from the art scene years ago after a tragic accident. When he need an assistant his old friend Archibald Hopper recommends one of his student, Annabelle French.


Chapter 1: Soulless

"Good morning Sir, I am.."

"You're three minutes late. You were supposed to be here at 9. Don't apologize, you are just wasting my time. Come in. Third floor. There is just one door"

Belle knocked at the door on the third flood and followed the man inside. She tried once again to present herself, but his reply was a sharp "I don't care what's your name, dearie". So she kept her mouth close and entered in the studio. It was full of canvas and painting and buckets of colours. But the smell was off. She thought of presenting herself once more, but preferred not to. He looked around and moved a couple of things in the spacious room, acting as if she wasn't there. Maybe he forgot about me. This is just a waste of time, even if he is in search of an assistant, as professor Hopper said, I think he don't want me.

Abruptly the man turned around, looking at her in the eyes for the first time.

"What do you think?", he asked.

"About the paintings?", Belle was unsure. This seemed to exasperated the man.

"Of course about the paintings, girl! It's my studio, what do you think you'll find, cupcakes? Stuffed animals? Any other stupid thing your silly girly mind can think of?"

"No, sir".

"And don't call me sir, it irritates me"

"Ok…", she whispered. And he sighed, one hand massaging his neck, eyes closed.

"So, about the paintings, what do you think?", he asked again.

She took a deep breath, to steady herself and started to look at one painting, then another. She took her time, moving back and forth in his studio, analysing every shade of colour, every brush' stroke. While she was observing his paintings, he studied her with thoughtful eyes, taking his time to analyse the young girl in front of him.

It took her more than half an hour to finish, sometimes moving a little canvas towards the light. She was frowning deeply and she sighed, she would never get this job, and she will have to go to professor Hopper and explain why she wouldn't, even after his recommendation. The little sound broke the silence between them, and he asked "Your verdict?".

She stared at him, and he noticed for the first time the deep blue shades of her eyes, fixed into his own while she spoke.

"They are soulless", her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but her tone was firm and sure.

"Why?"

She looked at the paintings, then at him again. "It's… it's like they are painted 'in the manner of A. Gold', and not by Arthur Gold. An excellent job, though. Probably they would fool a little art dealer or a greedy collector, but not a real expert, I think. They are not.. How do they call your works? Oh, yeah, 'Pure Golds'. They are all your technique but they are not truly yours. They may have your signature, but they will never be 'Golds'". She shrugged saying the last phrase, and watched him, bracing herself from his wrath.

He blinked, astonished, and then a roary laugh erupted from his chest.

She didn't join him in his glee. And the more he laughed the more her expression turned serious, and somehow sour, the frown between her eyebrows deepening. He was laughing at her, and this was quite unpleasant. She felt the anger creeping under her skin

When his laughter died, he looked at her from head to toe, and she repressed a shiver, trying to stay controlled under his gaze. She felt like a piece of meat. First he didn't want to even know her name, and now this. She was fighting hard to control her temper when he spoke

"Maybe my old friend was right", he mused, "maybe there is really something in you, something you will fail to notice at first glance. As for what it is… well, maybe we'll discover it, maybe not. Who knows?"

He wasn't really talking to her, so she didn't replied as he went on.

Yes, maybe there is something under that little face of yours, dearie. I thought you were a joke when I opened the door. I was ready to pick up the phone and tell Hopper to sent to me someone who would really be useful, not just a meek woman-child, who probably would consider some shoes and bags worth of her attention and be bored to death in a real museum. Lucky I didn't trusted my instinct or your little provincial dress. Under that baby blue dress and your loose bun there is something.. Maybe valuable. Who knows? Such a poignant critique… you, dearie, are a mystery. I assure you we'll work on it, and, sooner or later, I will unveil it, and you'll be a perfect sculpture…

She snapped, "I'm an artist, Mr. Gold, not some clay you can shape in form and have fun with!"

His eyebrows arched at her rage, intrigued and annoyed at the same time "Oh, so you are an artist?" He mocked. "Isn't a little premature, dearie? I don't think I ever heard or read about you or your work", he shook his head, slowly, his smirk turning into something more feral. "Indeed, I'm certain I never came across your name anywhere, before reading it in Hopper's letter - and I don't even remember you name, dearie. But, please, correct me if I'm wrong. Maybe I was just distracted, inattentive, and I didn't catch your rising star."

Belle felt herself tremble with rage and shame. And he seemed amused by her reaction, waving away with a dismissive gesture with his hand any remark she attempted to say, silencing her on the spot.

"So, now that we have stated who is the artist in this room, let's go back to the point. If your highness the great unknown artist will accept this job as a vile, humble assistant, I'll see you every morning at 11 o' clock. Not here, dear, but in my real study, where my real work is. Here's the address", he said, scribbling something in a piece of paper and giving it to her. "Every morning you'll bring me tea and coffee, I'll let you know where to buy them. And you'll go and fetch us something to eat in early afternoon. Of course you'll stretch and prepare the canvases, you'll mix the paint, clean all the brushes and sometimes even the floor and the clothes. Occasionally, you'll help apply the ground colour, too. But don't look forward to this task, I rarely paint these days and usually I apply the ground colour myself. In these last years I… how to phrase it, widened my interest… so you'll do anything I'll ask for. You'll also organise and archive all the paintings, the sketches, the ideas I got in mind and all over the place – you'll see what I mean. You'll reply to letters and enquires, you'll go and fetch me books, pictures, anything I might want as a reference. And, of course, you'll do any sort of odd jobs I'll request you to do. Everything clear?

Does he thinks she will refuse? He dares her to refuse with every word, but she can't. So her reply is firm. "Yes, everything is perfectly clear".

"Let me know in advance if you have any problem: lessons, projects to finish, visits to parent or old grannies in hospital or anything young folks like you do in this age. In return I will let you know, with a fairly notice, if I don't need you because that day or another I don't feel like painting or I don't want to work or I have others things to do. And of, course, in case I don't want to see your face around. Do you agree?"

She is taken aback, and mutters "Yes, sir".

He sighed. "I think I told you not so long ago not to call me sir, it irritates me".

"I apologise… how can I call you, then, Mister Gold?"

"Just Gold is fine. Forget the Mister, too."

"Ok, Gold. Just Gold". She nodded, committing it to the memory.

"And you name, Miss?"

"French, Annabelle French".

"Then, Miss French, it was a pleasure to meet you, and I'm sure it will be a pleasure to work with you". He studied her again, while she stood still in front of him, eyes like deep pools.

She nodded and started to go away when he stopped her, a hand on her arm "You defined my painting soulless, right?".

"Well", she was carefully looking at his expression, "not your paintings in general, Gold, but these ones, yes, they are soulless". She said, with a little shrug of her shoulders.

"And your are bloody damn right, dearie", he smirked, seeming enraptured by a joke only he can comprehend. "I couldn't have said it better!"


End file.
